


Queen of this House

by helena_s_renn



Category: Def Leppard, Music RPF
Genre: Bisexuality, F/M, Homosexuality, Implied M/M and M/M/F relationships, Marriage, Sex, being married to a rock star isn't all roses, other Def Leppard band members mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 17:30:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13931868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helena_s_renn/pseuds/helena_s_renn
Summary: Paige expounds on what the last 20+ years were like. Don't expect to like her. But you might not hate her either.He tattooed my name on his arm in huge marquee letters for the whole world to see. His idea. I wonder how many of the people he advertises to that he is mine by the simple expedient of his forever sleeveless shirts believe it's real.





	Queen of this House

**Author's Note:**

> Oh holy shit, where do I start?  
> 1\. I don't know these people in RL.  
> 2\. This is FICTION! It does not in any way represent reality other than facts on public record, i.e., stuff you can read on Wiki, etc.  
> 3\. This is not meant to portray either main party in a bad light, insult them, or denigrate them, including for their choice(s) in partner(s) and other lifestyle-related activities as described here. Even I don't believe my own hype - you shouldn't either!  
> 4\. It may sound as though Paige is telling several different versions of the truth. That's deliberate. She's discussing years of history, she may not have a great basis for truth, it's her POV, and... "Whatever gets you through the night."  
> 5\. The final section changes 'person'. Also deliberate. Imagine that Paige has given an interview and these are the reporter's final comments.  
> 6\. Inspiration? Various PZHS interviews read online, groupie forums circa 2002-04, and pics of DL in South America, 2017.  
> 
> 
> Excellent beta and review by ChristianHowe. Any remaining errors are my own.

You should see how he sweeps down the grand staircase, so regal and graceful. His posture, his bearing. He wears a silk dressing gown like an empress. Beautiful hair; flawless, subtle make-up. It's date night at the Savage residence.

My husband. The world's biggest flaming homosexual. Not Elton or Freddie or RuPaul flaming, but if he weren't in a metal band, I wonder if he wouldn't start wearing my clothes full time. He's not trans. He loves the male body too much, including his own.

In spite of that, I love him so much it's probably a sin. Need him, want him, and keep his secrets. No, I really can't explain it in simple terms. It's the sum of the parts, the good, the bad, the things that hurt and those that bring joy. 

Not just anyone would choose a down-on-her luck Irish girl who'd been used and abused, knocked around and knocked up and downtrodden, all before she reached legal age. But he did. Despite the outcries of me being low class, barely a step up from prostitute, he pulled me out of the muck, swept me up like some fairy tale hero. So handsome, and so tragic, the side of his otherwise perfect face stricken by intermittent damage that sometimes makes him a recluse for months. 

Yes, there is love, and it doesn't go only one way. It's not all gratitude, but a lot of it is grounded there. He gave me a home and a family; I gave him sons. After, he paid for all the cosmetic and surgical alterations necessary to remake me into a woman half my age. Breasts. Tummy. Vaginoplasty. Hours and hours of laser hair removal. So much blond hair dye. I refused any work to my face, although maybe I'll change my mind when I'm fifty. In return, I gave him my silence, and the status having a legal wife brings. We don't use the words that might better describe our arrangement these days. My man is forever clean-shaven, it's an obsessive habit with him. He tattooed my name on his arm in huge marquee letters for the whole world to see. His idea. I wonder how many of the people he advertises to that he is mine by the simple expedient of his forever sleeveless shirts believe it's real. 

Not his mates, not his lovers. I've always known about that, almost from day one. He made sure I had more information than I ever wanted. Called it courtesy, openness, honesty. It was, yes, and brutal. At some point, Phil became my consultant and confidante on all things Leppard. That's how I refer to that aspect. Give it a name, shove it under the rug of the same name. Phil, the oldest of them. The one who finally - and first - gave up that lifestyle. I wish I'd had a father like him. He's gentle with me when we have our talks, and doesn't mind that I sometimes need to cry about the things he tells me, necessary evils. Or not evils, just facts.

And it wasn't always this way. We had to wait years to marry, defied society together in the meantime, and it bound us together to a degree. In the early days, he was very patient with me. Besides having little in the way of practical life skills, I'd never been with anyone who wasn't there to hurt me, or at least use me. We didn't even have sex at first. I was in my twenties and had never had an orgasm. The first few times, I broke down over the unreality of something so naturally sweet and powerful. He just smiled and brushed my tears away.

Life with the edge of the forbidden was good. Parties, shopping trips, vacations - I wasn't supposed to be there but he brought me anyway. Very quickly, I had to develop a backbone and a thick skin. Being constantly watched, photographed, approached by strangers - some nicer than others, shall we say - has always been part of it. The looks in some of their eyes, desperate want of him, hatred for me, sometimes the reverse, it would scrape me raw if not for the security I know I'll find at home. 

When they happened, neither planned nor unplanned, just seemed like fate, he supported me during my pregnancies. Spoiled me. Was ever so affectionate. Ran me warm baths and slathered my belly with coconut butter, delighted with the somersaults and kicks. Like every man, whatever his predilection, he had that deep, instinctive need to father children to bear his name and continue his line. Proof he's a man, that he can sire offspring. And I possessed a convenient working uterus. But in all honesty, I wanted to have his children, to make something that came from both of us that was real and undeniable. Not to discount anyone else's children including my own, but holding those red, squalling newborns, one then the other a year later, putting them to the breast, I can't think of anything more exhausting and exhilarating. 

After the babies, he left me to them... It's not funny but it is very real, what a full-term pregnancy and childbirth followed by years of breastfeeding, not sleeping, and lack of adult contact does to a person. Two babies in two years plus a hormone-addled 'tween to keep track of? I was just lucky that she wanted to be the boys' mother, too, and that I had her to help with minor duties. 

The state he found me in! The kids were fine. Me? A basket case. Can't say he didn't care, though. He - they - didn't go on the road that next year. "Why didn't you hire a nanny?" people always ask. Eventually I did. But at first... to whom would I dare entrust his children? Too many chances for abuse and blackmail. That was my paranoia, not his. After all, look what I came from. In retrospect, some women get postpartum depression; mine was more like an intensified fear. 

But then the courts finally ruled that he was free of his first mistake, and he married me, if for no other reason than to make our kids legitimate. Things between us changed. It became habit and schedule and ritual. Half the year, he was not at home. When he was, we played like a normal family with the morning rush; three on-time, healthy meals each day; homework and bed-times, music lessons, sport, and attending footie matches; trips to our vacation home, on and on. All the things expected of me all the time, which I do because it's my job when he's not home to take over and fuss about the details. Christmastime was - is - always the best, though, the entire house decorated, smelling of evergreens and pastries and pudding. I would plan for months, agonizing over the perfect gifts for him. 

The times designated as free, he spent mainly with his mates, or the boys, more as it went on. I rarely got him to myself, and when I did, it was on his terms. He'd carved out a life. There was room for me in it as his date, his children's mother, the ex-party girl I'd never actually been, supposedly made good. Perhaps I rebelled from time to time. As the Yanks would say, sue me. For years I mostly drifted along, never wanting to deal with being his ex. 

Yes, you should see him, on those four special days a year where I am allowed to touch him, and have him as a wife should have her husband. My birthday, our anniversary, New Year's Eve and one more left up to me because, he says, he understands I have needs. It's all choreographed, other than the actual bedroom activities. He has too much pride in himself to renege on his end of the bargain. I don't know if he chugs Viagra or if there's still enough straight in him to truly enjoy it once every few months. I'll never ask. 

We put on our best clothes, selected beforehand, each in our own rooms. We meet for a late dinner, often cooked by him. In our mostly-unused formal dining room, we eat off the china and silver we picked together years ago in France, drink wine from hand-cut crystal. If he were with his mates, it'd be whiskey and cigars. Dinner and dessert is followed by the second dessert, always in his bedroom, which is more of an executive suite that covers half of that floor. We take this slow, symbolic, promenade-like walk hand-in-hand up the stairs. I am always trembling, have been trembling for days in anticipation, knickers soaked by how much I need him. This man, father of my sons, father de facto to my girl, who took me out of the gutter and gave me his name... holding his hand is almost unreal. The gold ring on his finger. The other jewelry. His painted nails. 

He's generous in bed, and god help me, it's one of the reasons I'm still here. He takes his cues very well, following without fail as to whether I want it loving, or rough, fast or slow or however. Without surgery, without any seeming effort, he has a gorgeous body, more leggy than the classic male long-torsoed proportions, and a gorgeous cock; he moves with a fluidity that I can even see when he's posturing on stage. It makes me giggle sometimes, how he tries to be so butch. That man, the musician and showman, is so entirely separate from the queen of this house. 

He kisses me differently than I've seen him do with his... men: with his eyes closed. Quietly. His tongue though, he doesn't withhold that, he likes that he can get me off so very easily with lapping and circling and sucking my clit. He'll give me three, four before he strokes himself to full hardness and mounts me, and then I'm out of my mind like some wild thing in season. He laughs sometimes as he fucks me. In movies, on telly, people are always smiling and laughing when they go to bed together. That's not me, and he knows it. It's serious business, serious pleasure. Every time has to be the best, because I never know if it's the last. He doesn't laugh in my face, but when I'm on my hands and knees and he's on his own bent over my back to ram it up into me where I need it most, an inch or two south of where he no doubt needs it most, he floods me and giggles over the sounds of my moans. I sound like one of the famous Sheffield death scene bovines and it doesn't matter because the source of the noise is deep in my pelvic cavity, clamped tight and dripping wet around him. I want his seed to catch one more time, but I've been wishing that for so long it's probably too late. When I no longer bleed, will even this be taken from me? 

I could tell you what it's like in other positions, like when he has my ankles hoisted up on his shoulders and he stares down curiously into my face, shaking with the effort of holding off till I scream to the high rafters overhead. If I can provoke enough emotion to get his eyeliner to run, I feel like I've won. Or when he's flat on his back and I get to take control like he's my own personal joystick that I need no hands to operate. My man loves tits, big, bouncy, bountiful tits, and we had mine remade to fit his fantasy. Even now, on those nights, he'll spend hours with his mouth all over them. He says they taste like candy. I never am quite sure if that's a compliment or a comparison. 

When I first learned about all the things that go on between men, physically, I was shocked and horrified but after consulting Phil and then mulling it over for a long time, overcame my squeamishness. I have a mouth, a tongue, fingers. They work as well as any bloke's. And he's fastidious. I want to make him as happy as I can, yes because I love him but also because I feel somehow privileged to have the opportunity to go beyond the scope of what most ladies would do for their husbands. But then, I'm no lady, am I? His band's latest album contains a song I'm quite sure that, though he isn't listed in the writing credits, he's responsible for. No one but him could have come up with that hook; we all know what - who - it sounds like. If anyone is man enough to be his girl, it's me. Haven't I proven it? I wish. The equipment I don't have... he's happy with fake boobs but, unfortunately, not a fake dick. Honestly, I don't really get the fascination. I've had it up the arse. While it's not awful like some women make it out to be, it's nothing I'd ever ask for. Granted, I'm not a man. It's probably a good thing he doesn't have girl bits too or life would one big non-stop sexual merry-go-round. But I digress. 

I'm to be gone by daylight, that's part of the deal, back to my own den. When he's asleep and snoring, I lie awake in the darkness or moonlight and consider how far up I've come in the world from that squalid, nasty southside Dublin flat to this palace. Is this how royalty live, in separate bedrooms, with scheduled marital duties, the prince off to bugger his mates and get blown by groupies, American girls with their perfect teeth and exploding cheekbones and otherwise rounded faces, the princess left alone in her cold fortress? It's not even my decorating here, but his, a truly ostentatious style he deems understated and classic, everything white and beige, diaphanous curtains, too much furniture and accent pieces everywhere like an over-curated Victorian parlour but all modern. I loathe those curtains. One never knows if there's a huge telephoto lens on the other side. It's the animal skin rugs that throw it over the top, though. Once, I caught him and... no, I won't say who, but it was the lion fur and the two of them blended in well enough. Later that night I tossed the damned thing into the lit fireplace. Didn't give a fuck that the stench of burnt hair permeated the place for days.

On that subject, he has asked me more than once if I don't want to find a lover, someone to satisfy my sexual appetite. It pains him that I should want for anything, but not enough that he'd give up his lifestyle. Because, as he says, he has needs, too. He even has had a suggestion or two of who I should bang. All musicians, no surprises there. The elite of the elite in his world; them and their entourages mostly the scum of the earth but you didn't hear that from me. Entitled bitches, almost every one of them. Freaks. His first proposed stand-in was Phil, when he saw we were becoming friends, which made me want to vomit. I love Phil - very much platonically - and his wife is a lovely woman. No way would I chance ruining things with a couple who have become my friends and mentors. Rick is deeply in love with his current wife, she's like his yogi and drug counsellor and business partner all in one, unobtrusively so. They're out. Joe? No way. What did I say about musicians? He's the epitome of spoiled freak, complete with his own stalker. The only one of that bunch I'd ever considered was Vivian, mostly because I didn't know him well enough to have anything to say to him. I'd heard around that he'd do anything with a pulse who rated a six or better, and that he was not particularly confident or well-hung. By the laughter and orgasmic noises coming from the upstairs hallway one kid-free weekend when all the band and hangers-on converged on the home of Mr. and Mrs. Savage, I had to change my thoughts on his skills at least. Hiding out of sight on the back stairs, I listened to a good fifteen minutes of whatever Irish men consider sexy talk, determined not to laugh nor rub off on the edge of the riser. That night marked one of the few times in recent history I claimed my rights without a warning. 

I moved in on my queen as he passed from the kitchen to the abandoned gaming room, pressing my tits against his, undoing his velcro fly slick as you please, palming the goodies below. At first, he tried to reason that he'd not had fair warning. The next excuse was that he wouldn't be able to get it up again. "Again." Of course. I was saucy, and asked if he was going to claim he had a headache next. It had to have been at least a few hours and what man can resist when someone goes to her knees for him? The internet has been a wonderful tool. Now I know exactly where and how to lick, stroke, suck just like a bloke would, how long I can hold down his balls without really hurting him. Kept him on the edge till finally he pleaded with me, that he'd give me his dick if I'd just please let him come. Victory! I wished I'd had the foresight to have put a ring on him, but there it was again: he wouldn't go back on his word. Like it was a throne, he sat his bare arse on one of those immense white ottomans and took me astride, grinding down, scratching the itch while he bit my throat and clawed lines on my back and bum. There was no 'enough'. Consumed by the perfect friction against the two deeply-set stems of my clitoral roots, I made a mess on him, squirting at least two orgasms before riding him to five or six more. So good! So right! I don't call him by his stage name at home except when we fuck. That night, cries of "Sav, Sav" shook the roof. When I was full of him, sated, full of myself for getting my way, I looked up and found midnight blue eyes fixed on us. 

So it was that he was right and now, finally, I get to share more nights. I don't mind the sharing part. It's doubled my allotment plus more on the side. In his world, and thus, mine, it's not stepping out if he's not keeping a mistress or shagging any birds but groupies. The boys don't count, either. If he has chosen my lover, same thing. In fact, it's part of the glue that holds us together. 

....

So, the princess: she drinks. Eats comfort food and alternatively starves herself. Plays with the children, shuttles them to their exclusive public school and their many activities, makes nice with the other supposedly upper class mums who, after all these years, still look down their resculpted noses at new money and rock stars and especially up-jumped gutter trash. 

She wonders what goes on behind their closed doors, if they also have to make appointments to share their husband's beds and how generous their allowances might be. Whose otherwise stuffed- shirt English prig of an aging spouse might have mistresses, or like to diddle little boys, or spend his family fortune on fast cars, hookers and blow? One just never knows. 

She's been blessed with none of that. The cross around her neck is a more delicate match to the one he's been wearing lately; she wonders if it's coincidence, or if he'll come home for real one of these days.

 

Fin.


End file.
